


Inner demons. (Not the cool type of demons)

by RitualMilk



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Crying, Drug Use, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Marijuana, PTSD, Papa finds you hurting and brings you to his room to comfort you, Possible smut later on, Self Harm, Silly-ness ensues, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, explicit discussion of abuse, explicit discussion of child abuse, food is eaten, i will upload more chapters in time, just a sad time with uncertain hope shining through, this is largely a vent fic for myself, we cursing abusers up in this bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitualMilk/pseuds/RitualMilk
Summary: Papa Emeritus the Third finds you suffering, freezing to death, laying outside the church in an area he happened to be passing by.Your attempted departure doesn't sit well with him.Maybe being closer to him will help quell some of your fears. You'd never really felt loved by anyone before. You feel like you don't deserve it.Papa doesn't care that you feel undeserving and expresses his care for you nontheless.





	1. Chapter 1

I lay upon the garden floor, cold and frail. Despite feeling ready to depart, something in my heart was hesitating. That was when I met his eyes- Papa Emeritus III. He looked upon me, approached me, and held my hand, but I was far too tired. I tried to let my hand slip from him, cold, my loneliness enveloped me. But he allowed no such thing. He held my hand, despite my abysmal loneliness. It didn’t take him in- it didn’t poison him. And I looked upon him, awaiting a reason. He told me that he loved me.

I didn’t understand. But my heart began to hurt.  
“Where am I?” I asked.  
“You’re with me.” he replied. I began to wonder if I was hallucinating.  
It’s okay. It’s okay. Even if this is a hallucination, I’m with him.  
That’s all that matters.  
I felt at peace for a moment.  
But I was slipping.  
I was tired.  
My eyes couldn’t stay open.

Where was I going? I felt myself float in my body, gently ripping my fleshly ties before bobbing slowly upwards and out.

I looked down upon him as he held my quiet body. I felt his hands upon my arms as he tried to rouse me. He finally engaged the idea of lifting me in both his arms, carrying my silent body from the garden, into his room.

“You’re not done yet,” he said. And I felt my heart cry out.  
“I’m not done yet.” I muttered, as my ‘self’ was tugged along by a cord connecting me to my body.

Why would he bring me to your room, wrapping me safely in his softest blanket?  
Why would he press his lips to my forehead, and mutter something too gentle for my mind to process?  
Why would he take care of me?

I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.

I watched, suspended above my body as he sat on the floor beside the bed.  
He wanted to give me peace that I didn’t have. I had no such love in my life before him.  
I still don’t understand why he did this for me- why he took care of me. But my body calls to me once more, and I cannot deny the comfortable warmth surrounding me- the handiwork of his kind blanket.

My eyes opened the comfortable darkness of his room.  
He looked upon my stirring body, and I felt… peaceful. Silently, I took stock of my emotions, my thoughts. I felt safe. It was shocking to feel safe. My sense of safety was broken at the hands of my physically abusive mother, my sexually abusive step father, my emotionally abusive father.  
I had no safety.

But there he remained, asking if I can hear him. I nod. How many fingers is he holding up? Three. He seemed relieved.

I felt an uncertain peace.  
I felt an unwieldy longing.  
I felt an uncomfortable yearning.  
I was not okay with these sensations. I was not allowed to experience these sensations.

I love you.

Is that okay?

Will you hate me?

You look upon me, gently.

I look back to you, uncertain.

“You tried to freeze to death.” He finally stated, bluntly. I nodded. There was no way around it. Even if I had met his gaze, and momentarily wanted him to save me, I wanted death even more. My heart felt empty. Dust had accumulated in the corners and cobwebs stretched across every aorta and vein. My blood felt like toxicity, drinking my energy rather than giving any to me.

“Yes.” I whispered hoarsely.

“... Please don’t do that again.” His voice cracked, mid sentence. Something seemed to break in his composure. I looked up in shock.  
...Was he really so broken up by the idea of my departure?  
I stared quietly as his softly spoken breakdown. I could make out no words he whispered into the bed behind him. I watched as shivers overtook his body, his mind giving him qualms about his emotional state.

Crying wasn’t like him.

It felt cruel to ask him why he cared while he was so broken. So I, shaking as well, slid off the bed and sat beside him. I heard strained breathing from him.  
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly, concern bleeding into my tone.  
“I… Am not the one you should be concerned with.” Came his reply.  
I fell silent. 

I pulled myself closer to him and leaned against his body. I did not expect him to look upon me, nor did I expect him to wrap his arms around me. 

“You cannot leave us.” He said decisively.  
I remained silent. My heart yearned to leave this life. Likewise, my heart yearned to soothe him, and was torn as to which path it should follow.

“You give me peace.” I admitted to him. He held me tighter.  
“I didn’t know you were hurting so badly.”  
“I didn’t really tell anyone. I don’t… I don’t want to drag others down with me.”  
“It’s not dragging others down to ask for help, my heart.” he chided.  
“... I would rather think of others than think of myself.”  
“If you think that others would not be bothered by your absence, you are wrong. Have you been taking your medication lately?” He inquired suddenly, the possibility dawning on him that I might have been skipping doses.

“Yes. ...No, not really. I’ve been only taking it occasionally. I keep forgetting to take it.” I muttered.  
“Then you are to sleep with me in my room. You will be my roommate, and I will remind you to take your medication.” Papa decided. The audible commitment in his voice gave me pause. I couldn’t comprehend what was occurring. My brain refused it. Something was wrong. He wasn’t doing this for my sake. He was going to take advantage of me. He was going to hurt me. I looked into his eyes, mine looking frightful.

I could see no trace of harmful intent. But the fear remained vigilant at the back of my mind.

“Calm down.” He mused softly. “You’re safe.”  
I’m safe.

I can trust this man, sitting before me. 

I think he cares about me.


	2. Be At Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contemplating drugs, remembering an old conversation, and struggling to become accustomed to receiving care from someone.

Packing up was as tedious as I had considered. Throwing my shirts, dresses, and various little accessories into a suitcase, I threw a glance out the window into the icy weather. Snow poured from the sky, the ground gleamed as though covered endlessly in bits of shiny confetti. Why had I agreed to such a strange arrangement? Papa had been in my life for a few years. For the most part, we chatted rather nonchalantly, but at times, our conversations would grow deep and vast. I could recall a conversation that went as such:

“Death,” Papa had said, “Is the friend that awaits us all. The rotting of the bodies continues the cycle of life by feeding the plants and whatnot.”  
I nodded. “When I die, I would like to be buried with a tree sapling, so that my body directly feeds the growth of new life.”  
“That would be a beautiful way to visit your grave, piccola. To view a tree, growing large and wide, to see a literal example of the continuation of the cycle of life. Beautiful.” He took my hand and rubbed his thumb gently along the back. I kept my gaze upon the ground, and held the feeling of safety firmly within my chest.

I recalled this conversation, gazing out into the snowy sky through the blinds. Papa Emeritus III would soon be picking me up from my apartment, and my essentials were tucked away in a couple bags and a large suitcase, colored purple- my favorite color.

As I awaited Papa’s arrival, I sat upon my bed, unmade, messy. I hadn’t the energy to put it together nicely in months. My glass pipe sat upon my nightstand, next to a red-shaded lamp. Within the glass pipe, before I started packing, I had loaded a small bowl of weed, promising myself that I would only be allowed to smoke it after I had finished packing. That time was now, and grateful to have completed my task, I picked up the pipe and the lighter that sat beside it and smoked a tad. Soon after, I heard a knocking at my door. I huffed a sigh- it made sense that I wouldn’t be able to finish the bowl. Just my luck. Setting the pipe back upon the nightstand, I walked towards the door, admittedly excited to greet my love. I opened the door to Papa’s charming smile, and suddenly, my apartment felt much more comfortable- less lonely. I was grateful for his kind presence.

“Mia Cara, are you ready?” he inquired.  
“I was actually just smoking weed to celebrate the completion of my packing.” I stated, unable to help the smile his voice brought to my lips. “I would offer you some, but you’re driving. But you’re certainly welcome to have some once we’re settled in.” I included as a caveat.  
“I thank you, little one.” he rubbed the top of my head. “I may take you up on that offer.”

I turned then, gesturing him to enter my apartment. We walked back into my room and spent a little while putting my luggage in the back of his car. Upon finishing, I requested that I be allowed to finish my bowl of weed.  
“Absolutely, my heart.” he replied, cueing my relieved sigh.

Perhaps I should be concerned about how reliant I am on weed for my happiness. Certainly, plenty of things made me happy, but when I ran out of weed, it felt like my life was missing something imperative. I would find myself in spirals where I would listen to the saddest songs, refuse to talk to anyone, and I would go to sleep as early as I could and sleep for as long as possible. I don’t like to acknowledge this problem. Is it really a problem if it keeps me from killing myself? Is it just like my medication, at this point? I’d like to think that. After all, the effects I would feel when I wouldn’t take my medication were very similar to how a lack of weed would affect me. Perhaps I could consider it, then, to be medically necessary.   
Nonetheless, so long as Papa didn’t mind my daily smoking, I wouldn’t worry about it either.

The lighter clicked to life in my hand, and I puffed a bit of smoke while Papa took a seat next to me.

“How are you doing, love?” He asked gently.  
Didn’t he tell me, yesterday, that he loved me? When he found me in the cold, in the garden by the church? I had initially thought him to be a hallucination. Perhaps the ‘I love you’ part was a hallucination. There was no way to really know for certain.  
“I’m…” How do I feel? I silently took stock of my emotions. “A little sad, but I’m not sure why.” I admitted. “Overall, I’m okay. Not much better than yesterday, but it’s not like I can try anything with you next to me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He placed an arm around my shoulders. I suppose I was making him worry. The idea that I could make someone worry was a difficult concept to comprehend. But nonetheless, here he was, caring for me, regardless as to how unworthy I felt. It nearly made my head spin. ‘Why do you care about me?’ I wanted to ask. I didn’t, for two reasons. One, asking someone to quantify why they care for someone is unfair. It’s akin to asking someone to accurately predict the number of stars there are in the entire universe. No one can say such a thing. Why do I care about Papa? There’s numerous reasons as to why. It boils down, simply, to who he is as a person, and there are so many aspects of his personality, I could not hope to cover all my bases. It would be unfair to request such information from him- to construct an essay in an instant. The second reason as to why I didn’t ask was fear. What if, upon requesting this information, he realized that he didn’t actually like me very much at all? My heart couldn’t take the idea of him leaving now. I wouldn’t survive such a thing- to be left alone with my thoughts any longer.

I puffed the last of the smoke from my glass pipe, emptied the ashes into an ornate glass ashtray sitting on my nightstand, and proceeded to slide the lighter and pipe into my purse.

“I don’t mean to make you worry.” I said, apologetically, looking up at him from the corners of my eyes. “I’m not accustomed to…” I trailed off, deciding not to finish that sentence. To talk about it would be to open a large can of worms that I felt neither of us were ready to deal with at the moment.

“Mia Cara, let your heart be at peace. You don’t need to explain what you do not feel ready to.” he stated softly, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “You are safe with me. I am here for you.”

I nodded, placated for the moment. “I suppose we should get going.”  
“Yes, we should.” he agreed.


	3. Satan is kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to terms with the fact that Satan loves you and wants you to be happy, while also trying to come to terms with the fact that Papa won't hurt you as you've been hurt before.

By the time I had finished unpacking, Papa was walking through the door with a plastic baggie full of food in plastic containers. It was lunch time, and Chinese food was the genre of the hour. I had requested orange chicken, and he had gotten something spicy. It made sense- spicy food seemed to fit his personality.

“Thank you.” I said as he took the orange chicken and fried rice from the bag and handed it to me. Within the Church of Ghost, he had a little apartment of sorts to himself where in which he had a bedroom, a bathroom, and an adjacent living room. We sat upon the couch in the living room. Before I could begin eating, Papa stopped my hand. 

“We must first give thanks to our Lord, Lucifer.” He stated. I nodded. Yes, Satan, Lucifer, and the Devil- the dark lords we worshiped. My depression had left me feeling unworthy to continue my practice. Something in me knew that Satan still loved me, and wanted me to continue following the path of hell. Perhaps he was reaching out through Papa to gently guide me back upon my path. Perhaps Papa’s care for me was a direct sign that Satan, likewise, loved me. I clasped my hands together in preparation for prayer, my heart singing with the joy of worshiping my dark lord. 

Papa spoke, “Our father Satan, who art in hell, unhallowed be thy name.  
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in Earth as it is in Hell.  
Give us this day, our daily sins, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.  
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from god and his angels.  
For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever, Ave Satanas.”

The power of his words washed over me, and from out of nowhere, a deep sense of comfort and peace enveloped me. I could feel Satan’s presence- his love for me. He really did want me around, even in my depressed state. I recalled the lyrics to Cirice, ‘I can see through the scars inside you.’ Despite everything, or, perhaps with everything I had experienced, from the trauma, to the hurts I had committed against others and deeply regretted, he loved me. Satan loves me, his worshipper, who is committed to him and to being his ally. Satan loves me for the individual that I am, now. It felt… wholesome.

Papa noticed my silence, and the way my eyes had grown moist.  
“My heart, what is it? Why do you cry?” he asked, resting his hand on mine.  
“I had… forgotten. I had forgotten what it is to be loved by Satan. To be loved at all.” I began to shake, uncertain as to how to process the feelings surging through me. Through my anxiety, I felt the peace Satan was imparting unto me, and I welcomed it wholly, gratefully, hugging my arms around my chest. 

“I still can’t believe it.” I muttered, “I can’t believe that I’m loved by Him.”

Papa took both my hands, gently prying them away from my chest.

“Satan,” he mused softly, “Is kind. What he desires is to see you shine, piccola. He wants to build you up to your full potential, to see you learn to love yourself. You are not abandoned by him- from the moment you reach out to him, he is with you. My love, Satan is with you now, more than ever, because he does not wish to see you go.” He kept his gentle gaze locked upon me. I couldn’t help blushing, to have his undivided attention. It felt unreal. It felt like a deeply held wish was quietly coming true, just outside my sense of awareness.

“Why?” I whispered, the wetness in my eyes threatening to spill over. “Why does he care?”

I knew such a question was unreasonable, but I couldn’t keep it from spilling from my lips. I looked down, tear drops dripping upon my lap.

“I don’t understand.” I spoke in a broken voice.  
“Hey, hey… Look at me.” he asked softly. I did as instructed and looked into his gentle eyes.  
“You do not feel worthy, Mia Cara. But to Satan, you have been worthy since the moment you reached for Him. You have been deeply hurt, my love. Satan feels the pain burning in your heart, and he wished to soothe it. He sees you, and he loves you.” He wrapped his arms around me, and held me tightly. I held back my tears, but could not stop the tremors that ran through my body.

“Shhh, my love. It’s okay. Papa is here for you. I am here.” he murmured softly, petting my hair.

I felt… impossibly safe. Impossibly comforted. My hurts were spilling out of my chest, only to be replaced by a sense of frail comfort. And as the comfort settled in, my tears began to flow freely. I shook, and as silently as I could, I cried.

I didn’t keep track of the time- I had little sense of it. But I heard my stomach rumble, and soon after, Papa’s did as well. I took a deep breath, finally feeling steady enough to sit up.

“I’m sorry.” I muttered as I sat up.  
“You have nothing to apologize for. You have been hurting, deeply. You have held it all inside, my love. What you are feeling is the pain of letting go.” He said, easing my pain.

“Now, Mia Cara, it is time to fill your empty stomach. Eat, and enjoy.” He encouraged with a gesture. And so, that I did. I took my plastic container and opened it, looking upon the agreeable contents. Orange chicken, rice, and broccoli. Did he go to Panda Express or something? It smelled delectable. I then realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I ate. I didn’t think it was today. Perhaps yesterday? Mac n’ Cheese? Or… I had a hamburger at some point. I didn’t realize, as I was thinking, that I had already eaten half of the chicken. Papa smiled at this.

Maybe I really did need his supervision. I wasn’t doing an excellent job of taking care of myself.

We finished our meals in peace, recycling the plastics and disposing of any food waste in the garbage. As Papa threw away his, a playful mood struck me. I ran into his room, turned the lights off, and climbed atop the bed and stood up, holding my arms out. Yes, I was T-posing upon the bed of Papa Emeritus III.

“Sweetheart?” The word sounded delectable in his accent. “What’s going o-?”

“SUBMIT.” I growled dramatically, my eyes staring wide, the surrounding darkness shading my figure ominously.

“Lucifer, almighty! I’ll do whatever you want!” He said, his eyes wide, perplexion coloring his expression. I couldn’t blame him, I didn’t think he’d seen my overtly playful side. I grinned.

“Giiiive meeeee yourrrrr teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth.”

“But I need them to eat!” he whined.

“To chomp? To munch?” 

“Yes! To both chomp and to munch!”

I cackled, “All the better for me to have them, then, so I can do a DOUBLE munch and a DOUBLE crunch.”

He laughed. “And how do you intend to fit my teeth into your strange little mouth, hm, piccola?” He approached the bed, crossing his arms.

“By… just… well just… You just take the tooth and you jam it in there and hope to fuck that your mouth accepts your new tooth because if it’s not accepted then you just die, immediately.” I elucidated, dropping my arms from the T-pose. I jumped, and rather than landing back on my feet, I crossed my legs so to land on my butt upon the soft, cushiony bed.

“Where will I be sleeping?” I asked, suddenly realizing that sleeping arrangements were uncertain.

“I had planned on sharing a bed with you, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Anxiety seized my chest. I took a deep breath. No, I’m safe. I’m safe with him. This man is safe. “Yes.” I said finally. “That will be agreeable.”

“Are you sure, piccola? You seem hesitant.”

“Yes. I just had to… I have to re-convince myself that… you’re..." That you won’t hurt me, hit me, berate me, try to kill me, try to break me, destroy me. "... Safe.”

I wondered to myself why he didn’t ask about my hurts and traumas. Was he being considerate? Did he want me to feel comfortable enough to bring it up myself? I appreciated his cautious attitude towards this, given his apparent lack of caution in most matters. I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

A sorrowful look passed his expression. He gently pressed a gloved hand to my cheek, and I, giving into the safety of his presence, leaned into his hand, sighing softly.

“Yes.” I decided. “I am okay with sharing a bed.”


	4. Getting Caught

When I had pulled out my exact-o knife and rolled up my sleeve, I had done so anticipating that Papa would be gone the majority of the day. I should have expected that he would take time to check on me after what had only recently occurred. I should have anticipated the door opening as I made the first slice. But I didn’t.

As my head turned towards the sound of the opening door, I caught an expression on Papa’s face that tore my heart to shreds. Quickly, his expression turned to fierce determination as he approached and yanked the knife from my hand. He knelt down in front of me.

“What makes you think this will help, hm?” He asked. I was too shocked to respond. He sighed, taking a moment to recollect himself.

“Mia Cara, what happened? Why do you drag this awful thing across your skin?” He softly inquired. I looked down, moderately mortified to have been caught.

“I… I wanted to feel the hurt. It’s not because I feel like I deserve it, although maybe I do feel that way subconsciously. But sometimes I just… need to feel it. I can’t explain it. It’s… It feels like an addiction.” I admitted, not looking him in the eyes. I looked down at the red scars wrapped underneath my upper arms, trailing slowly downwards.  
Papa’s jaw clenched- he seemed to be thinking hard about something. He seemed upset. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to expose you to such a sight as this.” I spoke quietly. He said nothing, but seemed pained. Perhaps apologizing for such a thing was cruel in a way.

“For now, my girl, we must take care of that cut on your arm.” he decided, turning to a cabinet, fetching a bottle of disinfectant, and a large band-aid. He returned swiftly, the exact-o knife now hidden somewhere I likely would struggle to find. After seeing the distress my cutting habit seemed to bring him, I didn’t think I wanted to expose him to such a thing again. Perhaps I really should try putting the knife down, I thought.

I held my arm out, and allowed his ministrations. In some ways, this was a dream come true. I had had this fantasy of a savior swooping in to save me from the pain I was experiencing, both at the hands of my abusers, and the hands of myself. Admitting such a thing would feel too shameful- the desire of wishing for a savior was so cliche, so naive. I knew this, but it could not stop me daydreaming, could not stop me wishing. He placed the bandage upon my skin, and immediately, I leaned in to hug him. He hugged me back.

“Mia Cara, if you feel impulsed to do such things, I would much rather you come speak with me.” He requested, his voice soothing.

“... So long as you’re comfortable with me bothering you in such a way.” I muttered.

“Love, do not fret for bothering me. You are in a frail state- I see this. You need someone who will take care of you until you feel okay again. I am here for you.” Papa retorted gently.

I said nothing, but relaxed in his arms. I soaked in the sense of warmth from his embrace, and laid my head upon his shoulder. He smelled very pleasant- like cloves and wood. Eventually, we parted.

“Do you have anything else you need to do today?” I inquired.

“Nothing in particular.” He replied.

I grinned, grateful towards the prospect of having his company. I hopped up and made my way towards my suitcase from which I pulled out a metal tin and a little glass pipe. “Wanna get a bit high?” I offered, holding the objects up.

“Hell yes!” he accepted readily.

We settled into the soft couch of his living room, black in color. I pulled out my grinder and pressed a small nug inside while Papa pulled out a Large Bong from his closet, stashed near his pants. That’s a fucking euphemism. Damn, this fic is smart. Anyways, he gripped his Long Bong firmly and carried it to the couch, setting it down between us. I looked down at his Bong.

“Damn. That’s a big bong.” I commented, somewhat impressed.

“Why, thank you, sweetheart.” He replied with a wink.

I couldn’t contain myself- I wrapped a hand around the top of the bong and began sensually sliding my hand up and down the trunk of the bong. I made direct eye contact with him, grinning devilishly. He threw his head back in laughter, and when he looked back at me, I stuck my tongue out at him and ceased my gentle ministrations upon the Large Bong. I faced the bowl towards myself and loaded some weed. When I looked back up, he stuck his tongue out at me.

So I stuck my tongue out, back at him.

And he stuck his out, moving closer to accentuate the statement.

And I stuck MINE out, moving even closer.

And then, by a magnificent accident of fate, the very tips of our tongues touched, stunning me into jumping backwards. Papa laughed.

“Be at peace, darling, it was only the tip.” He grinned.

I laughed, “Just the tip, huh?”

“I know what I said.” he retorted.

The mere mention of anything related to… that… made me blush. Especially related to him. I took the lighter in my hand and smoked to avoid speaking.

Papa, on the other hand, seemed surprised by something. As to what, I couldn’t imagine. Perhaps he was expecting me to continue the jokes and high jinks. Did my silence give more away than I intended? I passed him the bong. He took a disproportionately large inhale and exhaled a large cloud, coughing quietly into his hand. Was he nervous about something? Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe he just felt like being quiet. I wasn’t about to interrupt his thoughts.

He passed the bong back to me. “So… how did you sleep last night?” he asked. I took it from him. 

“I’m not really used to sleeping next to another person, so it’s a little rough, but as long as I take my lorazepam, I’m fine.” I explained. Privately, I hoped to grow comfortable enough sleeping next to him that I would no longer require my medications.

“Well, Mia Cara, perhaps I can make you some lavender tea tonight to help you relax.” He offered, his voice soft and deep. It made me melt.

“A-ah… That would be agreeable.”

“Would it? Excellent. Now, look at me, my love.” 

I did as instructed. His eyes seemed to see through mine, peering into my soul. I was taken aback by the intensity of it.

“Y… Yes?” I asked.

He gazed into my eyes, falling silent. He sighed, raising a hand to brush it against my cheek. “Listen to me. You’re safe with me.”

A sense of comfort enveloped me, followed rapidly by a sense of happiness. The intimacy of the exchange burned at my cheeks. “I believe you,” I conceded.


	5. Gentleness

I could feel the high bubbling gently in my head, surrounding me in a sense of warmth and comfortable detachment. I stared easily into Papa’s eyes as he gazed back at me. Something seemed to change in the mood, although I couldn’t place my finger on precisely what that was. He was trying to convey something that was going over my head. His hand rested upon my cheek, where his thumb rubbed softly. It felt too intimate to be real.

“I think I’m lost.” I admitted, my voice low after having scorched it with smoke. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to convey to me, Papa.”

He said nothing, but I noted that the distance between us had begun to shrink. My heart fluttered quietly. What was going on? I refused to acknowledge the most obvious possibility- there’s no way something so intimate could occur between us. But his eyes were half lidded, his lips slightly parted. I found myself drawn in, hypnotized by his beautiful, dual-tones eyes. My eyes drifted closed, and suddenly, I felt his hand behind my head, pulling me closer until our lips touched. I froze- I had no experience in kissing. I was wholly unfamiliar with what I should do. So I remained still, and allowed his lips to move against mine.

“Mia Cara,” he mused softly, pulling away slightly, “Why do you not kiss me back?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” I admitted, a quiet shame seizing my stomach. “I don’t know how.”

“Well, my love… Let me teach you. Follow my lead.” His lips pressed to mine once more. I felt his tongue gently touch against the inner part of my lips. I felt light-headed, and I sighed with pleasure. Shyly, I mimicked him, and he allowed me to dominate the kiss momentarily, so to learn what he had been showing me.

“Very good, my girl.” he praised as we parted. I felt like a mess; I felt heat pool in my lower abdomen, my face was deeply flushed. I bit the corner of my lower lip as I was overcome with a strong desire for more of the contact he had bestowed upon me. I had never experienced a sensation like this before. It was absolutely intoxicating.

“C-Can we… keep going?” I asked, flustered.

“Of course, my love.” He agreed readily as he kissed me again, sliding his hands to rest on my waist. A thrill of excitement went through me. I was completely drawn in by him and his gentle touch. As he kissed me, I became more comfortable in his grasp and began to kiss back in earnest. 

Overwhelmed, I pushed back to collect myself, gasping quietly, my gaze turned towards the sofa. “That was… intense.” I murmured. He seemed pleased with my statement.

“Darling, if you think that was intense, I have much to show you.” He purred with a wink. I flushed deeply. I gripped the bong, pressing it to my lips to avoid acknowledging what he said. This was the happiest moment of my life. I couldn’t imagine something like this happening to me, and yet, here I sat with Papa, smoking my favorite weed, and doing intimate things together. How dreamy this felt.

Papa relaxed back into his seat as I passed him the bong. I exhaled a cloud of smoke with relative ease, my throat desensitized to the heat of the smoke. I reached towards the table in front of us and grasped a cup of water to sip on. I heard the bubbling of water inside the pipe, and a prompt exhale. Feeling more silly than usual, I decided to surprise Papa.

“Hey, Emeritus, come close.” I beckoned.

“Yes, my love?”

“Closer.” 

He was close enough that I could feel his breath. I grinned, and proceeded to lick his cheek. He jumped back in shock with a groan, wiping my saliva off his skin. “You fiend!” He chided before gripping my face gently between his hands and licking the tip of my nose. I laughed, wiping my nose off on my sleeve.

For the first time in a while, I felt like things were gonna be okay.


	6. The Sermon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa Emeritus the Third delivers unto us a sermon.
> 
> (This sermon will be updated with an additional testimonial in a few days. I just wanted to get this posted since it's been a while since I've updated.)

It was Sunday. I agreed, much to Papa’s delight, to sit and listen to his sermon. 

“I constructed this one for those who are worried and have doubts about Satanism.” He explained, “Satan really fucking loves those within his fold. Sometimes, people need to be reminded that Satan is actively with us. I think it would do you well to listen to this one, sweetheart.” 

I conceded easily- I had privately been looking forward to listening in on his upcoming sermon, regardless of the content. He was correct- it would do me well to be reminded that Satan truly loves me. I have a hard time understanding that other people feel genuine love and affection for me- especially an almighty deity such as Satan. His love is as great as his power, but my anxiety was holding me back. Perhaps Papa would say something in his sermon that would remedy some of my worries.

Papa changed into his ceremonial robes and led me to the room of worship- a huge room with stained-glass windows depicting various demons. Gold and black seemed to be a consistent theme within the church. It felt elegant, dark, and comforting. It was twenty minutes before worship would begin. Papa led me down the center aisle to the front seats and instructed me to sit. I did as he said. He then leaned down to press a kiss to the top of my head.

“Wait here for me, Mia Cara. Soon, you’ll hear what Satan has asked me to preach. I want you to listen to me, piccola. Satan wants you with him.” His voice soothed me. I had my discomfort about being in a largely public space, but I knew that if something went wrong, Papa would take care of it. 

Time passed, and people began to fill the seats of the church, dressed in various mixes of black, red, and blue. Music began playing softly from speakers- the chattering of voices and Papa Emeritus III’s song square hammer covered the silence like a cotton blanket. The chattering didn’t bother me too much- the time I had spent with Papa had given me plenty of energy to operate with. 

Soon, the music faded out, and five nameless ghouls came upon the stage. I recognized the opening chords to Cirice, passed between the two guitarists. Papa Emeritus III entered the stage at a slow, dramatic pace, his hands raised and turned upwards. His lips moved and spoke something inaudible- a prayer, perhaps, asking Satan to assist with a positive performance. He approached the mic and began singing. He started with Cirice, then moved to He is.

As the music settled into silence, the congregation erupted into applause, followed by unabashed cheering. Papa raised his hands, his palms facing the crowd, to indicate a call for silence. The crowd followed suit, and sat back down in their seats. 

“To my fellow Satanists, and to the beautiful newcomers,” Papa began, seeming particularly chipper. “I welcome you to the Church of Ghost. What a fucking turn out! I’m grateful to have you, you who have found a family within this congregation.” His attitude made me smile. I settled into my seat and readied myself to absorb the information he was preparing to deliver.

[BEGIN SERMON]

Hello, my kind audience. Today, this is the message I seek to convey: Satan loves you, calls upon you to remove the blindfold of blind faith, and desires to build you up in confidence, knowledge, and self love. I will touch on the topic of good and evil. I will then elucidate the love of Satan with testimonials from his worshippers, and finally, I seek to convey Satan’s nature to you as a loving, compassionate deity. Let us begin.

It’s often said that Satan is evil. Personally, I strongly disagree. But before we can call anything evil, we must ask: what does it mean to be evil? Let us compare that which is said to be the ultimate evil, Satan, to that which is said to be the ultimate good: the christian god figure. 

But first, how do we define evil? If you rely on the Merriam Webster Dictionary, it will define evil as profoundly immoral and wicked. Child abusers, rapists, people who actively aim to do harm to other people who have done nothing to earn the harm perpetrated against them, fit into this category.

How is good, then, defined? Well, it’s important to acknowledge that the concept of good is largely defined based upon the society that you live in. According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, the top definition is: “Of favorable character and tendency.” Some generally agreed upon characteristics of a person who is good, based upon a survey taken within our congregation, include being honest, being polite, expressing sympathy for others, not leaving people with trauma, and expressing kindness to loved ones. Those qualities seem reasonable.

In christian saturated societies, the idea of good and evil is largely associated with god, as good, and Satan, as evil. This is highlighted by the plethora of Satanic imagery in horror movies, and the bands that use gore and Satanic imagery as shock value, rather than truly following what Satan stands for. Satanism has been used in excess for shock value, and few bother to legitimately follow Satanic values, such as disdain for bigotry against others, and love for the outcasts. Whereas god is praised with such things as common turn of phrases such as “cleanliness is close to godliness,” the presence of several churches of multiple denominations per city, the strong association of the christian god with healing, light, and love.

So let’s meet the christians on their own playing field and utilize the bible. Here’s the question I posit to you: Is not the christian god figure more evil than Satan? Here are the events documented by the bible that contradict the idea that the christian god figure is kind and loving:

He flooded the Earth to rid it of those he saw as unworthy- simply because they didn’t worship him! Because they were too impure in his eyes, because they were ‘sinners.’ To decimate that which you claim to love is the height of abuse. The christian god encourages you to walk by faith, not by sight. That means you are to walk across a minefield, blindfolded, promised a hand to hold and a guiding voice that never comes. He promises his hand, and then lets the innocent walk into the hands of televangelists, for one example, and those who prey upon the vulnerable. Walk by faith, he says, not by sight. Do not take off the blindfold to see where the mines lay in the field. The christian god does not love independence, he encourages staunch dependency upon him and the bible, and those who claim christian authority to lure you in to their schemes of control. He is not about freedom, but control. He blinds, but he does not guide.

Satan calls for no such thing; Satan commands you to see that which lies before you, to heed the warnings before you, to remove that blindfold, destroy it that it may never blind you again, and walk with knowledge of what you may face. Satan calls for informed decisions, and does not make the unreasonable request of blind faith.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline defines signs spiritual abuse as   
Ridiculing or insulting the other person’s religious or spiritual beliefs, preventing the practice of their religious or spiritual beliefs, using religious or spiritual beliefs to shame the individual, forcing children to be raised in a faith that has not been agreed upon, using religious texts or beliefs to minimize or rationalize abusive behavior. The bible verse Psalm 96:4 proclaims, “For great is the lord and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all gods.” That says a lot about how the christian god perceives himself. If you exercise religious freedom and follow a religious path that you may feel is more fulfilling, you are actively sinning, and to throw salt upon the wound, this verse proclaims that he is better than any other god you may love. These are the words of a powerful narcissist that can’t handle the idea of having less than absolute control over the individuals he wants to be forced into his constituency. He claims to love, but takes away your right to explore yourself and to try and understand the universe as you experience it. This is spiritual abuse.

Satan was struck from the heaven’s because he wanted equal rights between the angels and the christian god figure. The bible itself states, verse 1 Samuel 15:23: “god hates rebellion! He hates the attitude of lawlessness it produces, as well as the crop of wicked fruit that results from it.” But rebellion only comes when an individual has been pushed to the point of feeling that rebellion is their only tool of being heard, of regaining their rights as a human. Was it wrong for people of color to protest their mistreatment and succeed in gaining rights for their people? Was it wrong for the slaves to rebel against their harsh mistreatment? The bible itself was used against slaves to justify the horrible institution of slavery! The christian god figure does not love us, he loves control.

When Adam and Eve were in the garden of Eden, the christian god forbade them the fruit of knowledge! What does this mean for them? He wanted them to remain as pets to him- ignorant. It was Lucifer himself that gifted us free will. Thank Lucifer for his temptation of the lovely Eve, for it was she that freed humanity of the christian god’s patronizing. Lucifer saw the suffering of Adam and Eve for their lack of knowledge of their own circumstances and cured them their ignorance. We should rejoice in Lucifer’s name. Ave Lucifer, Ave Satanas!

Why the Earth be flooded due to an excess of sinners, but when christians commit acts of atrocity and violence in the name of their god, their god turns a blind eye! He does not punish those who are violent in his name! So long as you believe in him, close your eyes and submit yourself to him, you gain access to a supposed paradise. He wants you to relinquish control of your life to him, to control you, to bind you. He aims to use you. And what has Satan done but demand equal rights, and love those who worship him? Where is evidence, solid evidence, that states unequivocally that Satan is objectively more evil than the contradictory, harsh, abusive, and cruel christian god?

Do not fear Hell. It is not the despair inducing landscape that the bible claims. If the christian god figure is willing to mistreat and abuse his supposed creation in the ways that have now been established, how comfortable do you think he is about deeply misrepresenting those who sought to check his power that he may not have the ability to mistreat and abuse that which he claims to love?

This said, how do we, within our own experiences, tell that Satan cares about us? Where is the proof that he is truly loving and involved with his followers? To answer this, I offer the testimonials of myself and two others. I’ll begin with my own experiences.

When I pray to Satan, He floods me with a sense of peace. Even if I am feeling anxious, He wraps a sense of comfort around me like a blanket when I pray to Him, as if to tell me that He is listening, and that He loves me, and that He is here for me. When I am feeling poorly, I simply pray, and I ask for his presence. As for a more physical expression of his responsiveness- I recall clearly, when I first confessed my love for Satan, my eardrum in my right ear seemed to flutter- as though a pressure was releasing and thrumming inside my ear.

Another more physical example includes that of the individual Charles. They performed a rite to dedicate themselves to Satan, and as they spoke their dedication, their body was enraptured by shaking shivers that they could not cease no matter how they tried- it was beyond their control. Upon completing this rite, their vision was tinted red. There was nothing put in their eyes that could cause their world to be under such a tint- it was a natural occurrence following their dedication to Satan. Another magnificent testimonial from Charles includes that of pain relief- a testimonial I’ve heard from numerous individuals in different forms, as Satan is an attentive and loving deity. Charles was experiencing a sharp pain in their mouth that caused them great discomfort. Upon praying to Satan for relief of this pain, it soon dissipated into nothingness, and once more, Charles was able to rest.

Tiefling, another kind member of the congregation, had been going in to job interview after job interview and failing each. They were getting desperate- they needed a source of income quickly. And so, they turned to Satan for help. They made an offering and prayed that Satan bless them with a successful interview. Immediately after, the next interview they attempted was a rousing success, followed by the second interview. Tiefling got the job they sought with the assistance of kind and loving Satan.

So what does Satan call for? What does He want for us?  
For this, I cite two songs written by my very own band, as well as the bible itself. In the song Cirice, which was a song constructed to be sung from the perspective of Satan, I point out these lines: “I can see through the scars inside you. I can feel the thunder that’s breaking in your heart.” In the song He Is, a worship song about Satan, there is the line, “He is insurrection, He is spite, He’s the force that made me me.”

He is insurrection! He is the uprising that asks us to destroy the corrupt authority that cares more about profit than people. He is the rebellion that topples governments that have grown apathetic for its people. He is the abused child striking back, and growing to love themselves despite the cruelty of their parents. He is spite! He’s the force that pushes you forward when the people around you tell you that you can’t do it. He gets people through college, through work days, through the times that drag endlessly, painfully, he pushes you forward and towards the success you desire. And if you listen to him, he will build your sense of self love and confidence so that you cannot be knocked down. Satan is with those who protest for their rights, those who are dissatisfied with the status quo. He is with every victim of rape that cries out for change. He is with every victim of hate crimes committed against the individual simply for being who they are in public.The fifth blasphemed psalm goes as follows: “Father of witches, and protector of outcasts is Satan in his unholy habitation.” If you are an outcast, you are never alone. You are not abandoned. You have Satan’s love, and He is with you. He hates the bigotry committed against one another, and He cries out against it.

Pray to Satan, and He will hear you. He will be with you, and He will respond to you. Even if it’s merely a brief feeling of his energy, He will make himself known to you, because fundamentally, Satan is love for the lonely, compassion for the unheard, and a father for those with none.

“I can see through the scars inside you.” The walls that you put up- he sees through them, and loves the person he sees beneath the hurt and the pain. “I can feel the thunder that’s breaking in your heart.” Not only does he empathize with you deeply, but he understands you deeply. He sees what’s in your heart. Let him come into your heart that he may heal your hurts, that he may raise you in self confidence and self love, that he may ignite a love for life within your heart. He sees the potential within your heart and he sees how he can bring you to life. Allow him in, and he will love you deeply.

What do I wish for you to take away from this? It is as follows;  
Satan is loving. He is kind. He readily accepts the new and releases the old, and He will rejoice for you to enter His fold. Reject the lies of the bible, insisting that He seeks to harm people. This is simply not true. What Satan desires is the upheaval of old values that do harm. He seeks the freedom of knowledge, and the empowerment of the self. He wants to see you blossom in your confidence and sense of self love.

Thank you for listening.  
Ave Satanas!

[END SERMON]


	7. Oops, here's the trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!!THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT DISCUSSION OF ALL KINDS OF ABUSE!!! Seriously, all kinds. Religious abuse, sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse. It's the whole shebang. Please do not read this unless you feel like you can emotionally handle such discussions. This is a big hurt chapter with a good lil bit of comfort. This is the darkest this fic will get- I felt it was important to state this about the character so that Papa and the reader may understand the protagonist a little better- their motivations, their reactions, etc.

“Papa, that was an excellent sermon.” I commented as he and I walked back to his room. “I really like how you utilized a bible verse for the added bit of blasphemy.”

“Why, thank you, my love.” He paused to take a dramatic bow. “I told you that you would enjoy today’s sermon.” He pulled out a key to unlock the door to his room. We entered, and I noted him locking the door behind him. A paranoid thought came to my mind- Does he plan to hurt me? I dismissed the thought. He had proven himself to be trustworthy, hadn’t he? But don’t people get killed by their supposed loved ones relatively frequently? I recalled past court cases of mothers murdering their children, and other atrocities that had made the news. I recalled my own parents, my mother, throwing me down the stairs. Yes, relation is irrelevant. People will do whatever they want, at the detriment of others around them. I don’t matter. My movement ceased briefly as I wrestled my anxiety, but I couldn’t help the trembles that settled upon my hands. My jaw clenched. It was nothing. It was probably nothing, it was just fine, I was worrying over nothing. 

“Sweetheart?” Papa asked. I had been staring into space too long. 

“Y-...Yes?” I asked, feeling ashamed that I would think such things about Papa. He wouldn’t kill me. That would be extraordinarily detrimental to his career as the Satanic pope. … But wait, didn’t the Papa Emeritus the First sing a song about human sacrifice? Shit. Shit shit shit. My eyes grew wide. I stared at Papa Emeritus the Third in fear. He had lured me into a sense of security just to destroy me. Shit. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t-

“What’s wrong? What is it?” Papa asked in a gentle, hushed tone. I looked up to him, recoiling as he drew closer. 

“You locked the door.” I stated, slightly choked by my fear. “Why?”

“Oh… well I… I thought we might have a little fun together, you know?” He admitted softly. “What are you so afraid of?”

I couldn’t answer. He was being too gentle to have bad intentions. … Right? And… Even if he did kill me, would it be so bad? To be killed by him? Didn’t I want to die in the first place? Despite this thought, I couldn’t settle my emotions. Being hurt by someone I trusted was too much for me to handle. I couldn’t take anymore hurt from people that claimed to care about me.

I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart. It was awkward to do- I knew this. But I needed his sense of warmth, the beating of his kind heart against my sweaty, shaking hand.

“I was afraid… That you would… Do something. To hurt me, that is.” I admitted, refusing to look at him as I spoke.

“Oh! No, no, my love, I would not hurt you. Never. Not in a million, trillion years.” he declared, wrapping his arms around me tightly. “My sweetheart, my love, you are entirely safe with me!” 

His expression of affection reached through my blind terror and reigned me back in. I could not stop myself shaking, but I clung tightly to him like a life vest in a stormy sea. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head before escorting me the bed, where he had me sit. He stood in front of me, stroking my hair.

“I would never hurt you, Mia Cara.” He stated firmly, quietly, then pressed another kiss to the top of my head. I nodded, a sense of safety creeping slowly back into my stomach, settling my anxiety. I reached out for the hand that stroked my hair and held it in mine before bringing it to my lips, kissing the top of his hand.

“Thank you, Papa.” I said in barely a whisper, holding his hand against my cheek. I love you, I wanted to say. But the words stopped before they could even coalesce in my vocal cords. I felt them swell in my chest, bursting, begging to be released. But to say something so risky after experiencing such fear felt reckless. Instead, I said nothing, but I gazed up to him. He looked back to me with sad eyes.

Perhaps I should tell him why I’m like this. The trauma, the terror, the things that have made me so frightened.

“Papa, I… I feel like, since you’re actively dealing with the results of my trauma, you deserve to know what happened.” I muttered, letting my gaze fall to his shoes.

“Mia Cara, do not speak of such things that bring you fear and pain.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with what happened. It hurts, but I can manage. You deserve to know. If you care to listen, that is.”

“... Only if you desire to tell me, my love.”

I closed my eyes, bit my lip, released a deep exhale, and ran through the stories in my mind. Where to even start? It started with my mother. It continued with my step father. My birth father was a constant oppressive presence, so when should I address him?

“When I was six years old, my mother was already treating me with enough cruelty that I wrote upon the inside of the drawer of my old nightstand, “I hate mom.” But it didn’t start to get really bad until I was in fourth grade.”

Papa took a seat beside me on the bed, silent. He reached for my hand, and I accepted his contact, squeezing his hand in mine.

“I was running late for school that day. Running late was a consistent issue of mine in elementary school. That day, though, something in my mother snapped, and snapped hard. I was dilly-dallying, acting like a child, as most fourth graders do, and she grew so angry with me for it that she picked me up by my hair and threw my down the stairs.” I explained, my voice growing quiet. Papa went still. I glanced at him, then continued.

“The beatings continued. In high school, I entered a same-sex relationship with another girl. A kind, lovely, beautiful individual. Our relationship was a little unhealthy- we had some codependency issues, but I was thrilled to be with her. Once my parents found out, they… My mom beat me, hurt me, pulled my hair and beat against my head like a drum. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in while she called my dad. I don’t know what she said, but she and my dad had this tightly held belief that I was… that I acted out pointlessly, that I was a troublesome, annoying child, and that my emotions and perspectives were largely nonsensical. They never took my seriously, that is. They thought I was stupid. While I was in the bathroom, I texted my girlfriend to let her know what was happening. I told her that I loved her as my dad arrived and beat upon the door, demanding to be let in. I tried to tell my dad that my mom was beating me. Every time I told him, he never believed me.”

I began to get choked up. I coughed, dismissing the emotions that were bubbling to the surface. They were irrelevant. I was recounting my past, nothing more.

“They took away my phone the moment I exited the bathroom, and they forced me to delete her number. Our relationship was a long distance one, so they cut me off from her by taking away all of my electronics, and grounding me from everything, more or less. I was allowed to do nothing but go to school, come home, do homework, and go to bed. I wasn’t allowed on my phone, I wasn’t allowed to do anything related to the internet. Later, my younger step brothers told me that I was going to hell for being in a relationship with a girl.”

“I recall, another time, clearly, my dad took me skiing to celebrate my graduation from highschool. For context, this was when I was still a Christian. He took me to the top of a mountain on a ski lift that very few people used. He asked me, when we reached the top of that mountain, “How do you think God feels about you?” I looked my dad in the eye, shameful and deeply hurt, and I told him, “I think he’s ashamed of me. I don’t think he likes me.” Papa, I can’t express to you how deep the pain that comes with believing that your own god doesn’t love or approve of you simply for how you exist. Disdain for Christianity was already blossoming in my heart, but being put on the spot, feeling forced to say such a thing... that nearly broke me.”

I paused to wipe the tears off my cheek, clenching my jaw. I didn’t look at Papa.

"My step father… His name… I don’t like to say his name.” I muttered. “He… I can’t detail what happened. But he… sexually abused me. And told me on multiple occasions that I would never amount to anything. I… Papa, I never told you this. But I’m… Nonbinary. I might be a boy, but I’m not sure yet. I’ve been debating this with myself since I was 16 or 17. When I was at that age, I got my step dad to purchase a chest-binder for me, promising that it was only for cosplay- to dress up as male characters. He told me, soon after, that if I ever came out as transgender, that he would shoot me down. That I would be “a dead girl walking.” That aside, growing up, I was very suici-”

I heard a sound from Papa. Was he… crying? What the fuck? I looked over towards him, bewildered. I knew the story was rather depressing, but he was… crying for me? I couldn’t comprehend anyone caring about me enough to cry for me. Yes, he cried when he brought me inside after the attempt on my life, but I presumed that he was crying out of the pity of lost human life, or some bullshit like that. Iit felt odd to have someone care so deeply for my misery.

“Er… I was… Really suicidal growing up. I don’t know if you’ve seen the scars on my arms, but I started in sixth grade, and… well… Never really stopped. My step dad knew this. And so, one night, he and my mother went out on a date, and he… He left a gun in my room. Alone, in an empty house.” My voice gradually fell to a whisper. “... He used to say that if I was going to cut myself, that I may as well cut my whole arm off.”

I wrapped my arms around myself to try and satiate the sense of emptiness, the hurt that reached out from my heart. I fell silent. After seconds of silence, I saw Papa shake his head out of the corner of my eye, and I looked towards him to see him crying freely, openly, his hands clenched into fists, his gaze piercing into me. 

“I… Um… I hope that… explains some things.” I muttered. My body began to feel heavy, but my head light. Detachment settled like cotton clouds in my mind, and I could feel myself begin to dissociate. My body was shaking, and I felt cold. I pulled my legs into my chest and wrapped my arms around them, hiding my head in my knees. Shame, I identified. Shame was the feeling pressing in my chest, causing my discomfort. I was ashamed to have burdened Papa with my trauma so thoughtlessly.

“I… Didn’t mean to… I didn’t know you would be so affected by what happened to me. I’m sorry that I made you cry.” I said, looking up from my legs and at Papa, who then reached out to me with, slowly, deliberately, watching my expression for any sign of discomfort with his actions. When he received no protest from me, he scooted closer to me and wrapped his arms around my shaking figure.

“My love,” he whispered. “My love, you have suffered too deeply. I’m so sorry. You’ve been treated with monsterous cruelty. I’m sorry.” He held me to his chest, and I could hear his heart beating- a warm thrumming in his chest. His kindness broke down a dam within me, and suddenly, I couldn’t stop myself from weeping. I wrapped my arms around him and shifted my position to crawl into his lap. I pressed my face into his shoulder and, for once, I allowed my emotions to flow freely. Hurt, pain, and terror for my past. Love, shaky trust, and comfort from Papa’s embrace. His warmth grounded me, but couldn’t keep me from at least partially dissociating. I couldn’t keep my emotions from spilling out of my chest like water from a fountain. I rocked back and forth, clinging tightly to him, to attempt to soothe myself. Papa rocked with me, gently, whispering words of comfort.

It took me thirty minutes to calm down enough to feel comfortable with separating from the embrace. Truthfully, I didn’t want to let go. But I didn’t want to burden him any further. I raised my head to look at him. Normally, our faces would have been too close for comfort, but this time, I didn’t mind it. He smiled kindly at me, but the hurt didn’t leave his eyes.

I love you, I wanted to say. I didn’t. But I felt it, nonetheless.


	8. Preparations

I was listening to music when Papa tapped me on the shoulder. I removed my earbuds and looked up towards him curiously. Before I knew what was happening, my feet were off the ground- Papa had lifted me into a tight hug. I was stunned, perplexed, but not unhappy with the contact. I smiled and nuzzled into his neck.

“What’s this about?” I asked

“I just wanted to express my love for you, my darling.” He replied, grinning. He set me down, patting me on the head. I swatted his hand away. I was short, sure, but he did need to rub it in.

“What have you been up to?” I inquired. He was wearing a casual outfit, indicating to me that he planned on going somewhere. “Or perhaps I should say, what will you be getting up to?”

“You’re coming with me, sweetheart. We’re going to pick up some important ingredients for a ritual. Black salt, pepper, black candles, perhaps an athame.”

“Don’t you have most of these items here?”

“Yes, but I would like it if you were to pick these items for me.”

I was curious as to why I specifically needed to select these items. Were they going to be mine? Or would the ritual be somehow related to me? I could venture guesses, but I would only know for certain by asking. Before I could open my mouth to do so, Papa pulled out a pair of pants from the dresser and threw them towards me. 

“Get dressed, Mia Cara! We’re going to do some fucking witchcraft.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, then put on the pants laying at my feet. I pulled them on my legs

\-----------

We arrived at Thirteen Moons, a moderately sized stand alone shop only five minutes from the Church. It was surrounded by large trees and smelled like a pleasant spring day. From the entrance hung a wooden pentagram. Papa opened the door and held it open for me. I thanked him, and entered. The interior was lovely- sturdy wooden shelves held books about various iterations of paganism, as well as how-to guides on getting started with pendulums, tarot, and other psychic skills. Other shelves held statuettes of various gods and goddesses, altar tiles, essential oils, and, as I made my way towards the back, I saw that the entire back wall was dedicated to the holding of more herbs than I’d ever seen in my life. How had I never heard of this place? Did they have a website I could view? I’d have to look upon returning home. 

Papa strode in behind me, following behind as I wandered the shop. They seemed to have everything. There was another wall devoted to athames, a shelf of incense holders, clothing, crystals, spell kits… Just about everything a witch would need. It was a little magical paradise. I looked up at Papa.

“What are we here to get?” I asked.

“Spell ingredients!” He declared. “We,” he gestured between the two of us for emphasis, “are going to curse the motherfuckers that hurt you.”

My eyes went wide. “What? Really?” 

“Yes, really. Now, you know how to curse someone, Mia Cara. Pick out what you feel like we’ll need. I’ll pick out a couple items of my own.” 

Although I could recall his reaction to learning of my abuse, the upset it caused him, the emotional investment that he put into my trauma was stunning to me. My heart fluttered under the emotional weight of cursing those who had done such grievous harm to me. I had been putting it off, but I knew it was long past time to do it. To avenge myself and my lost childhood. It was the right thing to do.

With a sense of certainty instilled in my heart, I branched out and took my own little pathway through the maze like shop. I found myself gazing upon cheap glass trinkets- Broken glass could be helpful in a spell. Surely there must be a better way to obtain broken glass, though. 

“Papa Emeritus?”

“Yes, love?”

“I would like broken glass for the spell. Should we obtain glass to break or-”

“Yes, we will get glass for you to break yourself. I want you to put your hurt and pain into the destruction of the glass.” He affirmed with a serious gaze. I nodded, intimidated to see him looking more intense than usual. I’d never seen him doing witchcraft- what would his persona be like then? Would he be as intense as this? More so? I nearly shuddered at the thought. He was really taking this seriously.

“Perhaps we should go to a bigger store to get some plates for cheap.” I suggested. Papa nodded, muttering that that would be a wise decision. Cheaper than what he was thinking of doing. I turned my gaze back to the glass trinkets, my eyes lingering on a small glass sculpture of a fox before I looked towards the herbs.

It took an hour and thirty minutes for me to contemplate and gather that which I would need. Papa Emeritus had something in his hand that I didn’t recognize- it appeared to be dirt, but I saw nothing like it in the store. Was it a mix of herbs that happened to look like dirt? 

In my basket, I had a selection of curse ingredients that I felt would be right to use.I took the items to the register, and Papa gave me no time to worry about the price before he pulled out his card and handed it to the cashier. I blushed and said nothing but a quiet, “Thank you, Papa.” 

Papa patted the top of my head. “Of course, love.”

Soon, we arrived back at the church. I had begun planning the curse in my mind, and I was excited to hear what Papa would have to say about it. We entered his room, and I kicked off my shoes and hopped onto the bed, grabbing my little black journal from the nightstand and began writing my curse. Papa looked over my shoulder as I wrote, curiosity and inspiration gleaming in his eyes.

[Ingredients  
Taglock (A picture, saliva, snot, nail clippings- something to directly tie the curse to the target)  
Broken glass (Preferably broken by the individual casting)  
Lighter  
Frankincense Incense  
Black Tourmaline  
Garnet  
Ruby  
Obsidian  
Amethyst  
6 Black Candles  
Cayenne Pepper  
Black Salt  
Vetiver  
Dragons Blood Oil  
Patchouli  
Leg Bone of a Coyote  
Something To Break The Bone With (Like a large rock)  
A Mason Jar  
A Location To Bury the Jar

Arrange 5 of the black candles into the shape of an inverted pentacle and light them. Set the sixth to your side within reach. Set the herbs and crystals in the center of the pentacle. Place the taglock on top. Light frankincense incense as an offering to Satan and speak this prayer to him, “I have been deeply harmed by this person, Lord Satan, and this person has harmed my ability to fulfill both Hell's wishes and my own. May the person attached to this taglock suffer as they made me suffer, and never cross one of Hell's devoted again.” 

At each candle, set one of the crystals next to it for flow of energy.  
Speak its purpose out loud as you set each crystal by it’s candle.  
Garnet to leech the victim’s energy, Ruby to focus your intent on the target, Obsidian and black tourmaline to boost the power of the curse, Amethyst to induce sensitivity and self-destruction in the target. 

Pour the black salt in the jar, and pray for the victim to have nightmares of you. Pour the Patchouli into the jar, and pray for the target to fall ill. Pour the vetiver into the jar and pray the victim to isolate themself. Pour Cayenne pepper into the jar and pray that the target experience terrible anxiety. Pour dragon’s blood oil into the jar and pray for the target’s destruction and misery.

In front of the jar, place the bone. Say, “You have wounded me deeply, (name), and I break this bone to break your bones.” Strike the bone until it breaks, then pour the pieces that fit into the jar. Save the rest, if there are any remaining.

Place the taglock in the jar on top of the shards of bone, then pour the glass on top of the taglock. Place the crystals into the jar. Close the jar and shake it vigorously to expose the taglock to the violence of the herbs, crystals, bone shards, and glass shards.

Seal the mason jar with the black wax from the sixth candle. You can do this by lighting the candle and holding it sideways that the wax drips along the seal of the mason jar.

Finally, bring the jar with you to an isolated place with trees around and bury the jar underneath a tree, as deep as you can manage to symbolize burying the victim within the curse. Say, "(Victim's Name) be cursed, by the might of great Hell and by my own hand and by these ingredients."

Cleanse thoroughly after performing.]

“Well done, Mia Cara!” He praised, “That is a wonderful curse!” I grinned, feeling giddy to have his approval. Confidence swelling in my chest, I turned to look up at him and awkwardly lurched towards him, very briefly pressing my lips to his. He blinked, shocked by the abrupt display of affection, but he quickly caught up and pulled me back for a second, deeper kiss. I flushed red. He released me with a smirk. I suppose this is what’s called ‘biting off more than what you can chew.’ I should have anticipated that he would retaliate against my simple, shy kiss. Nonetheless, I was joyous. I felt so… loved. It was a feeling I still wasn’t wholly familiar with, but the ministrations from Papa Emeritus III gave me a sense of belonging and peace.

He turned his eyes from mine back to the page where I had written my curse. “We don’t have any bones on hand, but I can pick one up on Amazon for you, sweetheart. As for the broken glass, the cups we picked up on the way back will make plenty of pieces. We have a mason jar, lighters, and as for a location to bury, we should absfuckinglutely use a graveyard for an extra power.”

My eyes lit up. A graveyard?

“And…” he said, pulling the baggie of dirt from his pocket, “I got graveyard dirt.”

I blinked in shock. “How did you get graveyard dirt? Isn’t that difficult to acquire?”

He pressed a finger to his lips. “Secret.”

I crossed my arms, but opted not to press the topic. It’s natural that Papa Emeritus III would have his secrets. I imagined all of the Papa’s had their own secrets and connections. It wasn’t my business to force him to reveal that which he wished to keep confidential. I nodded.

“When and where will we be doing this curse?” I asked.

“We will be doing this in my ritual room.” he said, gesturing to a bookcase pressed against a wall. I walked towards the bookcase, inspecting it for any odd books regarding rituals, only to find that all of the books pertained to something regarding rituals, witchcraft, and Satanism. Papa clicked his tongue thrice, waving his finger at me. He kneeled down to the bottom shelf and I heard something click, and I jumped back in shock at the bookshelf swung outwards.

“Whoa.” I whispered.

“I know, right!!!” Papa gleefully exclaimed. He took my hand and guided me inside. We went down a staircase, and through a narrow hallway that opened up into a room that felt warm and positively Satanic. The walls were velvet black, and the floor a deep shade of purple. There was an altar pressed against the back wall, and a large inverted pentacle on the floor, made of thick black lines. Even as I nudged it with my foot, it didn’t budge. Was it welded to the floor? Glued to the carpet? A cluster of three black candles were set at each corner of the room, and it smelled thickly of frankincense and patchouli. I felt a haze develop in my brain, as though I were gradually growing sedated. 

“Wow.” I breathed, stumbling slightly. I felt Papa’s hand on my back, steadying me. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mia Cara.”

I took a closer look at the altar, covered in a black velvet cloth lined with gold, and dressed with black candles and a statuette of Lucifer. An incense holder rested behind him. This would be an ideal place to cast a curse.

“Alright.” I said, taking a deep breath. “We have the where. Now what about the when?”

“On the night of a new moon.” he stated.

In six days.

In six days, we curse the person who abused me the worst: My mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Kaireign (Jasper Valentine) for inspiration for the prayer to Satan. ( I didn't want to directly copy you because that felt rude. )


	9. I love you. Yeah, for real.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protag comes to terms with being loved.

Fury engulfed me like an ocean in the days leading to the curse. It was as though the pent up rage from years of abuse was now releasing. Not only was I going to curse the living hell out of my mother, but I would have the help of Papa Emeritus III, guaranteeing the success of my curse. I could be an idiot at times, but I wasn’t daft enough to doubt his witchcraft.

My mood was wild, but tempered. No one could imagine the joy I felt when Papa presented me with the leg bone we would require for the curse. I knew they were relatively easy to acquire, but I was worried it would take longer to get it shipped in. Nonetheless, here it was, in my hands, clean, white, and smooth. I beamed at him with a big grin.

“Mia Cara,” He told me, “We have every ingredient we need. Now all we need is the proper time. For now, it’s only right for us to be hedonistic, no? Let us smoke some weed, drink some alcohol, and have some fun.” His voice lowered, his soft spoken velvet caressing me gently. I agreed readily, dazed by his suddenly sensuous gaze. I followed him into the living room and sat while he retrieved the weed and the long, hard, delicious bong. Delicious? Why, yes, it is. He cleans it with this apple flavored cleaning juice, that I’m sure exists somewhere in the world. Fuck, google it.

I took the bong from him and began packing him a bowl from the iridescent grinder. Which was difficult to achieve while listening to him sing something to himself I couldn’t identify. His voice was mesmerizing, so much so that I had to pause what I was doing to listen. He seemed to take notice of my quiet attention to his singing, and his voice grew in volume. A stray thought arose: Is he… serenading me? He’s serenading me. What the hell. That’s so fucking romantic, I thought. I raised my hand to rest it upon his cheek. His soft laugh broke the melody, and he set his hand on top of mine.

“I love you, Mia Cara.”

My breath caught. This again? Last time he said this, I was laying in the cold in little clothing so to expose me to the elements, hopefully to freeze to death.

“No you don’t.” I stated. “That’s just not possible.” I began to try and rationalize what he was saying, but I couldn’t- my brain had frozen in place and refused to move. Papa set the bong aside, then took my hand in his, holding it between us.

“I do.” He insisted softly, stroking my hair with his other hand. “I do.”

“I don’t understand.” I stuttered out.

“Let me show you.”

I fell silent, my heart tearing in two- one half crying out with a dire need to protect myself from any more hurt, and the other half screaming for the opportunity to feel loved. My soul yearned for him. Tears in my eyes, I looked up to him, searching his eyes for insincerity, his expression for any betrayal. Nothing in him spoke of cruelty. I began shaking. My brain began to operate again, and it showed me the time I had spent with Papa Emeritus III- every moment of affection, every fleeting kiss, every little compliment, every gesture. What the hell? What the hell?

If I wanted to be loved, I had to open myself up to being loved. I had to accept the ordeal of being known, whether I liked it or not. My heart was running on empty, and I was so full of wounds, it was a miracle I was still breathing. Perhaps it was time for me to accept the idea of loving someone, and allowing them to love me in return. Perhaps, then, I could begin healing in earnest.

“Okay.” I decided, my voice quiet and choked. “I… accept that.”

“You… accept that?” He raised an eyebrow.

“That is to say, I won’t run away from you. I won’t cut you off. I’m here for you. I accept your feelings. And I love you too.”

Papa’s eyes lit up. He wrapped his arms around me, giddiness radiating from his expression as he pressed soft little kisses along my neck. I gasped, but didn’t reject the contact. He sat up once more, grinning deviously at me as he picked the bong back up, grabbing the lighter as he did. He pressed his lips to the top and lit the bowl. I took the moment to collect myself and review what had just occurred. I was still struggling to comprehend the idea that Papa Em had legitimate feelings for me. But slowly, I was growing to accept this idea. There was something deeply comforting in knowing that I was with someone that loved me. I turned my eyes back to him and watched him breathe out smoke in a thick cloud. The room began to stink of marijuana- I breathed it in and smiled. It was synonymous with good times and a calm mind.

He passed the bong to me, and I took my hit, exhaled, and gazed at the table in front of us. He really loves me, doesn’t he? I couldn’t comprehend it. But I had to learn how to. I would be okay. I can be okay.

“Sweetheart?”

I snapped to attention, staring at him.

“Is everything alright?” He asked.

“Yeah. I’m just… It’s... It’s hard to explain. I’m not used to this” I muttered quietly, scooting close and leaning against him. He wrapped his arms around me, and I held the bong between my crossed legs. 

“I love you.” I said. 

“I love you, too.” He replied. “Look at me, Mia Cara.” 

I turned towards him. He took my face gently between his hands and pressed a kiss to my lips.

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a vent piece that slowly became about Papa emeritus III- a character that I find comfort in. I hope someone out there relates to what I've written and finds comfort in it. We abuse survivors are everywhere- and dear reader, if you, too, are a survivor, then I am so sorry for the hurt that you have experienced. You deserve a better life than you've been made to believe.
> 
> I love you. Be safe.  
Here's a song for those who need it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s2XGSnKYBU
> 
> https://puu.sh/EmtGz/5b1d71dd28.png nice


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